


Silver

by calrissian18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco, DH compliant, Fingerfucking, Infidelity, Language, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Top Harry, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has a simple wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

> I tried so hard to make this have plot but, man, did it resist. So enjoy the pointless smexyness, all.
> 
> Very adult content!

 

He is the only man I've done this with. The only man I will _ever_ do this with. I'm pummeling his kidneys as he rams himself down on my prick, his arse pistoning up and down as he rotates his hips. My cock drags against his insides, battering against his walls, and he moans like a two-bit whore. His fingers are digging into my thighs, bruising the shit out of my skin, but I like the little reminders.

He leans back, my prick tunneling hard to his tiny bundle of pleasure center. He thrashes and drives himself down on me, again and again. I don't know how I haven't burst yet. I have three minutes left in me, tops. Part of what I love about him is part of what I hate about him: I can never last. I've built up no tolerance, I need him just as badly this time as I did the last, and the time after this he'll still be as essential as oxygen.

His hips jerk and his hands plant against my chest as he rides me, his hair thick with sweat and dripping into my mouth. I lap it up, any taste of him is good taste.

His eyes are gleaming but it's not me he's looking at. It rarely is. He slams down hard, my dick nothing more than a dildo built for his speed and comfort, which seems to be custom set at ferocious and as little as possible. His cock is sliding hot and heavy against my stomach, a warm and reassuring weight. I honestly don't know how I fuck without it.

He won't explode with me. I know he's disgusted with my stamina – t-minus one minute – but I don't think he can help himself any more than I can. Despite the fact that I suck, lick, _violate_ his fucking prick, it'll be at least another hour before he reaches it. That high. That indescribable nirvana where your vision goes white, your body goes boneless, and you're free.

I always give it to him though. Despite my multiple visits, I always get him there at least once. He twists a nipple beneath his hand and my scum hits him hard. He bucks into it, his legs jerking before he pulls off my flagging prick. He swipes at the slit with his thumb and sucks my dripping seed from his finger's tip without batting an eye.

I don't know what it would take to make him blush, but I do know that I will never reach that point with him. He stands up, his legs mockingly steady, and picks up his pants as if he intends to leave.

"Bend over the sink," I say. He likes commands. Sometimes he'll even follow them.

This is one of those times. He plants his palms on either side of the sink's basin and tilts his defiled arse toward me teasingly, my man juice dripping down the inside of his thigh. I don't have to look at the mirror to know he's smirking. I step behind him and grit my teeth to cover my moan.

I think he feels it rumble through his back, despite my efforts, and I know the smirk has only gotten wider. I lean closer to him, my prick buried between the twin cheeks of his voluptuous arse, his skin slick with my own lubrication and the sweat that tasted so musty on my tongue. I chug up and down, grip tight on his shoulders, the heat blossoming from between his globes a welcome one.

I am hard again, with room for a little expansion, and I ram deep inside him, the teasing strokes of my cock against his backdoor too much to bear. He is still loose from the floor, and perhaps last week, and the week before. I am amazed to realize that, once again, I won't last long.

It is impossible how hot he makes me. How desperate. I'm like a little kid humping my dick against the sun-warm metal of a car door, too young to get off, but too horny to stop. Only in this case, I'm more than capable of getting off and, honestly, I think that fact only pisses him off.

This time I pull on his dick, gather as much skin as I can down at the base so he's wrapped tight and pump him with my free hand, strangling him tight enough to give him his little death. I can't hump him as well this way, but I've already gotten my meeting with bliss and giving him pleasure is almost as good as receiving it.

I don't realize I'm biting my lip, eager to show him that I can fuck with the best of them, that I can make him come just as hard and just as long as anyone else despite my shitty endurance, until a drop of blood falls on his unblemished back. It's pea-sized until it dribbles down the length of his spine.

I glance up in the mirror to see if he's noticed, jamming my hips forward and practically giving his cock rug-burn with how hard I'm pumping. He hasn't noticed because he's too busy staring at himself in the mirror. I don't blame him. His own features are a fucking work of art.

The frowns that are documented and filed away in every line around his mouth, the weariness stamped in the crow's feet by his eyes, the anger stored in the creases of his forehead, the seedy lives lived in the cracks in his lips, the exhaustion set in his lank hair that frames it all. All of this proves the unachievable, gives me hope for an illusory future. These imperfections band together to make him seem real, attainable, possible.

Despite knowing that he is something else, something ice cold and inhuman, I cannot help but think of him as beautiful and I say it, once, reverently, aloud.

He doesn't look up, twist his mouth, or acknowledge I've spoken in any way except to plow his hips back into mine. The heat inside him is indescribable. More BTUs than I've ever experienced but without the shroud of fear. I don't have to worry I might be burned or maimed by this glorious, volcanic thing my cock is buried so deep inside.

I drive myself deeper and deeper into his tight, hot cavern and he clamps down on me, hard. I yowl and am pitched forward, keening inside him as string after string of pearly white scum coats his insides. I try to pump him but my hands fall to his hips as I ride out my second meeting with my maker, my peaceful rejoinder with a world beyond my reach at any other moment.

He twists his hips and drags me back with a scowl and even though I'm not quite sure what he's doing, I know my sore prick has taken offense. I'm still burrowed deep in him and he twists again and I yelp. I pull out of him without care and drop to my knees. He turns around, looking relieved, and shoves his cock into my open mouth.

I'm no longer a positional dildo but a wet cunt, a corn-holed watermelon, a slick fist: a juicy receptacle. In this, I am on his level. I have no gag reflex, he can fuck my face, cram his bodacious prick into my mouth until it's coming out my nose and I won't cough, I won't sputter, I won't choke. I'm his to nail with force.

He holds the sides of my head and rams his prick down my throat and I bob along in time with him, as if I'm doing nothing more complicated than following a tune. One hand grabs the back of my head and fists my hair and he moans, followed by breathy little 'ohs.' He's so fucking beautiful.

I hum against his shaft and his knees buckle. He's dragging my head forward and back with such intensity that I'm starting to get dizzy. I grab onto his hips for leverage while he drives himself in and out brutally. My glasses are being pushed up to pinch the bridge of my nose painfully as it's slammed against his pubic hair, a thick blond dusting.

It's in these moments that I want to tell him how fucking perfect he is.

He's ruthless as he shoves himself inside and says, begs, pleads, "Suck." And I do. I employ all my little tricks and use the teeth that he likes on the vein that he likes and he says, "Yes. Fuck, yes." It's these moments I live for.

I grab the mounds of his arse with my hands and piston his hips forward so he can't escape my mouth. I hold him there, my nose buried up to the roots in his thatch, and his prick buried up to the root in my mouth while I tongue him nice and slow. His fingers are like fire against the back of my scalp as he holds me tight, his hands overlapping so it's almost like he's hugging my head, his silver wedding band catching strands of my hair and pulling painfully. Forcing me to suck his cock, raping my mouth.

And I want him to, I want him to so badly I'm about to spend it all over my trousers. I try to think of anything but his hands on the back of my head, his vein throbbing against my cheek, his appreciative blasts of, "Fuck." Anything but him.

His hips are giving little jerks and his chants of, "Oh, oh God, oh Merlin, oh fuck, oh Harry," are getting louder. My eyes are watering and having my mouth open this long makes me want to yawn but I only ripple my tongue against the slick head of his prick and finger his trapdoor. I push inside him and his hands twist in my hair and I cringe as a few strands yank out.

He's slamming so hard my teeth are sore and my jaw aches but I accept it just the same. I sink another finger into him and he's riding me, his skin shining with perspiration and need, his hair tossed about as he moans and groans and bucks forward and I shoot my load, my hips jerking ceaselessly, pointlessly, as I ride it out, my pants tacky and sticking under me. I whimper as much as I can with his meat in my mouth and suck hard.

He pulls my forehead to his abdomen so I'm crushed tight against him again and all he says is, "Yes," before he splatters my cheeks and mouth and tongue and throat with his scum. I swallow my bitter pint with victory and look up into his shining grey eyes, triumphant.

He pulls on his pants and looks at me over his shoulder; I'm still on my knees. "Thanks," he says.

I say nothing except, "Thursday." It's the next time we'll meet. I'm counting the breaths.

He gives no indication that he's heard me, just puts on his jacket and leaves the room as soundlessly and as carelessly as he'd entered it. I shift on my knees and lean my head back against the unused bed in our defiled motel room. From the floor, I reach into the bedside table's drawer and slip on the gleaming gold band over the rubbery skin of my ring finger.

I can't help but wish it was silver.


End file.
